


Tree Topper

by May_Shepard



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Christmas Tree, Drunken Shenanigans, First Time, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, I Had No Idea A03 Had So Many Dedicated Christmas Tags, M/M, Sex Things Happen, Smut, This Takes Place After Whatever Hell Is Coming for Us in s4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-24
Updated: 2016-12-24
Packaged: 2018-09-11 19:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9007282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/May_Shepard/pseuds/May_Shepard
Summary: Sherlock and John are celebrating Christmas the best way they know how--alone together, with booze. They've almost finished decorating their tree, but John is determined to find the best way to top it.For my hellions--Merry, Merry Christmas my loves!





	

**Author's Note:**

> Someday I will get tired of writing friends-to-lovers fics for these two, but today is not that day.

"I'm going to top this tree," John growled, waking Sherlock up from the snooze he'd been having in his chair.

It was at least half past eight in the evening. The sitting room had long since grown dark, but they hadn't bothered with turning on any lamps. There was only the flickering light of the fire, and the rainbow colours of the fairy lights on the tree.

Not that it was, in any way, dim. The tree was absolutely huge, and John had insisted on getting enough lights to fill it. The result was a sitting room transformed, a warm orange-reddish glow washing over everything, over both of them.

"Need to top it," John repeated.

Sherlock sat up, blinking fast to clear his head, sucking in a great, giant breath. His legs, not quite agreeing to move with him, remained slung over the arm of his chair. He narrowly avoided tipping himself onto the floor. "What did you say?"

There was something in John's tone, not to mention his choice of words, that sounded more than a little grabby-for-Sherlock's-attention.

"This tree," John said, "needs topping."

Definitely grabby.

Currently, John was sprawled underneath said tree. He'd gone down there with the stated intention of spreading "some sort of blanket thinger" over the tree stand, a task which was, apparently, much too challenging. He'd ended up staying for a bit. The blanket thinger, a strange gauzy sheet with a picture of a Christmasy village printed on it, was balled up under his head, an impromptu pillow.

The both of them were comfortably drunk, uncomfortably giddy from the fact that they had, finally, the opportunity to relax at Christmas. At least, if Sherlock giggled a bit more than usual, and refilled his glass a few too many times, and avoided thinking about the fluttering in his stomach, that was the most likely reason why.  

The last happy Christmas they'd managed had been far too long ago. Now that the mess of the past year was over, they'd slipped back into old habits. Mostly. John still technically lived in flat he'd shared with Mary, although he'd taken to spending more and more time at Baker Street lately.  

Still, he hadn't moved back in, and Sherlock hadn't asked him to. Instead, Sherlock had danced around the topic of what happened next by sticking to the known:

_come if convenient_

_I've got a case_

_could use your help_

_I'd be lost without you._

Okay, that last comment was something new. Sherlock had let it slip, but John hadn't seemed to mind. He'd grown rather pink, but he'd agreed to come along on the stakeout anyway, staying out all night, even if he had gone home again after.

Polite invitations had replaced the old rhythms. Still, there were moments of affection, moments when their eyes lingered too long. Overall, Sherlock was left with the sense that John had one foot in, one foot out.

John needed to manage his feet better. Then again, Sherlock thought, giving his bare toes a wiggle, they probably both did.

"Tree topping," Sherlock repeated, now that enough time had passed that he wouldn't seem too eager to know more. "Fascinating. What do you propose?" He lifted his glass, tinkling the few remaining shards of ice in it, and took an injudicious swallow.

They'd moved on from expensive brandy, to much much cheaper brandy, to a sugary concoction that came in a bottle with a parrot on it, and tasted like liquid sex. John pretended to hate it, but he'd drunk a lot of it already. Sherlock was finding it quite delicious. Sherlock was finding John, sprawled on his back under the tree, his knees spread, quite delicious.

"I don't know," John murmured. "What have we got? A star? Pigeon? Bloody angel?"

 _Pigeon_ made Sherlock break out into a wheezy laugh, his shoulders shaking, his belly loose, everything sweet and amazing and right.

He got to his feet and stumbled over to the Christmas box, a ludicrously large Tupperware container ( _snort-giggle TUPPER_ ) that held their ornaments and sparkly tree stuff, most of it castoffs from Mrs. Hudson's substantial collection. It was, for the most part, empty now, since they'd strewn the contents all over the tree.

The tree looked quite nice, actually. No matter how haphazardly they'd hung the ornaments and thrown the tinsel on it, it was still lovely. A beautiful mess. Beautiful because it was a mess. A paradox. Sherlock paused, realising he'd stopped looking at the tree, and had instead been staring too long at John's hair, fallen out of the swoop he'd taken to wearing in the last year, and at the line of his bare stomach, where his t-shirt had ridden up.

John, who was still smiling up at him.

Sherlock turned abruptly and dug into the bottom of the box, threatening to tilt himself into it. He came up with a handful of glitter and a large bow, about the size of four of his own hands put together, that had probably decorated a present at some point.

"This," Sherlock said, holding it up, even while expecting John to object. It was a bit...not straight looking. It would have blended seamlessly with the aesthetic of the average pride parade, with its glittery rainbow of colours and its patina of gold glitter.  It flopped dramatically in his hands. "Not quite...traditional," he said, apologetically.

John shimmied out from under the tree, still on his back, glass of liquid sex in his hand. He squinted at the bow. His eyes were heavy-lidded, his half-smile sweet and relaxed. Sherlock wondered, not for the first time, not for the eight hundredth, if he were to simply fall to his knees and lean over John and kiss him, if that would be unwelcome. The way John looked right now, all sleepy contentment as he licked his lips, Sherlock couldn't imagine he would object. And then, and then, what a Christmas this would be.

"Fine," John said, grinning and licking his lips again. Then, with an efficiency of movement only John Watson could manage while inebriated, he got to his feet. "It's nice. I like it." He smiled, and his smile was like an invitation to a magical land of warm, sticky things.

Sherlock turned to look at the tree. The top very nearly scraped the ten-foot ceiling. They'd flung some lights and strings of tinsel up there well enough, but the uppermost vertical branch that crowned the tree was far out of reach.

"Haven't got a ladder," Sherlock said, his voice quiet. He eyed the desk chair. Could work, if he stood on it and leaned dangerously far into the tree. Maybe if John held his knees, he could manage.

"Mmm." John's voice was throaty, his chin jutting out as he stood with his hands behind his back, at ease. A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "I can make it."

"Jump for it?" Sherlock's stomach churned as ran through a host of solutions that involved greater and greater levels of risk to John's (cherished) body.

"No."

"We could pile up the chairs on top of each other."

A hint of a laugh huffed out of John. "No."

"Get the kitchen table in here? If we turned it on end I could hold it and you could stand on it. It might break and Hudders would be furious with us, but it is Christmas—forgiveness highly likely."

"No." John took a step back, and squeezed Sherlock's arm.

Squeezed. Sherlock's arm. And did not let go.

John had touched him before, of course. He'd patted Sherlock's hip and clapped him on the shoulder, and hugged him, on occasion. Once, in the bad time, before they'd sorted out the mess they'd made of their lives, he'd held Sherlock, wiped the hair from his forehead, and bent down to whisper in his ear, "Don't die, don't you dare die."

But there was no cause for such a gesture now, here, in the quiet of the sitting room, with the fire crackling behind them and the tree they were trying to finish trimming standing in the window. They were alone, and nothing bad was happening, and there was no reason for John to touch him at all, except maybe there was. Sherlock took a deep breath as John let go. He should say something.

No, no he shouldn't.

Before he could decide what to do, John climbed up onto the desk.  

"Come here," he said. Somehow he still had his glass in his hand. He drained it before bending over and putting it down by his foot, his whole body a compact miracle.

Sherlock couldn't stop staring. "Where?"

"Just come stand here."

"Okaaayyyy." Sherlock drew the word out, filling it with a sardonic quality that he did not feel in the least. He drifted over toward the desk, feeling as though he were floating.

"Back to me."

"John, if this is some attempt to—"

"Shut up and concentrate. Do you want to help me top this tree or not?"

"Should I answer that, or do you in fact want me to shut up?"

John answered by ruffling Sherlock's hair, and reaching down to take him by the shoulders, and turn him around, his back to John.

"You'll probably want to put that bow in your pocket. We'll need to take it with us."

Sherlock obliged, tucking as much of the bow as he could into the pocket of his dressing gown.

"Ready?" John's hands still lingered on Sherlock's shoulders. The right one squeezed a bit. Sherlock shivered. Delicious.

"Ready for what?"

"I'm going to get up on your shoulders, if you think you can hold me."

The only rational plan, obviously. Sherlock fought to keep the tremor from his voice as he answered. "Of course."

"All right. Please don't dump me on the floor." There was an edge to John's voice, a high excitement that Sherlock couldn't think about too much, if he were going to manage to balance—everything.

Then John's leg heaved up over Sherlock's right shoulder, his inner thigh pressing up against Sherlock's neck.

"Hold me," John said.

Sherlock clamped his right hand over John's knee.

John's. Knee.

John was balanced, no doubt, on his left leg, not that Sherlock could see anything (not that he wanted to see anything, except his hand, on John's knee, which he watched from the corner of his eye). John's weight shifted briefly onto Sherlock's shoulders as he shuffled closer. His crotch close, now, pressed up against the back of Sherlock's head ( _Oh Holy Night_ , indeed!), and his muscular right thigh already there, Sherlock's fingers digging into it, to hold John steady. Sherlock would only have to turn his head to the right, to press his face into it.

Then John heaved himself forward, and Sherlock stumbled a bit under his weight, and John threw his left leg over Sherlock's left shoulder, and Sherlock had both of John's legs firm in his grip as he tried to stand up straight, heady as he was with the closeness of John.

"All right?" John said.

"Okay."

"Is it? You sure? I swear if you drop me—"

"Don't be absurd." Sherlock would allow his entire spine to collapse before he ever let go of John.

"Okay. Over to the tree then." John made a clucking sound with his mouth.

"Honestly, John, I'm not a pony." Sherlock took two stumbling steps toward the tree.

"Easy boy. Just keep moving. Another step or two. And we'll be there."

_If only._

Sherlock shuffle stepped again, and again, wincing under the effort—he hadn't been quite ready for this. No number of dance lessons or nights spent chasing after criminals could prepare him for lifting John Watson up to top a Christmas tree. But he was as determined as he could be to draw this out—he couldn't be sure he would have the opportunity to place himself so firmly between John's legs again.

"A bit closer." John groaned, a sound that seemed both unnecessary, and a bit cruel.

It wasn't typical of a sound one would make while trying to reach the top of a tree. It was more akin to the sound one would make while having one's back raked by fingernails. Sherlock shivered, wondering how all of his blood could rush to his groin while he worked so hard to keep holding John.

Sherlock shuffled a bit closer to the tree. "All right? Can you reach?" His legs were pressed up against the tree's lower branches.

"Can you get a bit closer?"

"Yes." Sherlock stepped in again, taking a faceful of pine. "That's it, though."

"Okay, great. Good. Give me the bow."

"All right. I'm going to have to let go of your leg. Right side. Ready?"

John shifted minutely, sliding his right foot back to nestle more firmly under Sherlock's armpit, squeezing with the muscles of his thigh. "Mmm."

Sherlock fought to inhale as he gingerly let go of John's leg, waiting until he was certain John wasn't going to slip. He quite successfully brought his hand down to his dressing gown pocket, and retrieved the bow, its bright colours shimmering in the rainbow fairy lights. He handed it up to John. No problem, none at all.

Except: he'd begun to shake. His whole body was working quite a bit too hard under John's weight, not to mention the wild pressure of feeling John's crotch pressing up against the back of his head, the scent of John's laundry powder and John's preferred soap and John, just John, surrounding him like a heady perfume.

From above, came the sound of John fiddling with the branches. A small shower of pine needles rained down on Sherlock's face.

"Got it?" Sherlock asked. Every muscle in his body quivered. "John, have you got it?"

"Give me one more second."

Sherlock inhaled pine, and John, as John leaned toward the tree, pressing himself even more completely up against the back of Sherlock's head. The needles of the tree scraped Sherlock's face, and his neck bent at an uncomfortable angle, and his back was starting to feel like it couldn't support John for another moment, but he would not have given any of it up, no, not for anything.

"There. Perfect!" John's triumph was evident in his voice.

It was a good moment. And now—Sherlock realised they'd made no plan for John to get down again. He searched wildly for a place for John to land. The sofa, maybe.

"Okay, you can put me down," John said. And then he shifted back on Sherlock's shoulders, much too fast.

As Sherlock tried, and failed, to adjust his stance to compensate, time slowed, and he had a long moment to think about what had happened, and what was about to happen.

He understood, perfectly, that he was falling. If he kept on his current trajectory, he would inevitably dump John on the floor as hard as possible, putting him somewhere in the vicinity of the doorway. A little to the left or right, and John might crack his (precious, irreplaceable) head against the doorframe.

No choice for it then, but to crumple. John shouted, more a noise of surprise than anything else, and grasped Sherlock's head, succeeding only in covering Sherlock's eyes.

No matter: Sherlock knew exactly where he was in the space of the room, and knew precisely how to avoid harming John when he fell.

He landed on his arse, and bent forward, allowing John to neatly place his feet on the floor. John, for his part, dismounted very badly, managing to trip and just avoid planting his foot in Sherlock's groin, as he swung his other leg over Sherlock's head, causing Sherlock to spring free and fall gracelessly all the way to the floor.

Smacking down into the floor with his back, Sherlock had a very nice view of John's arse, as John crashed down onto him, splayed out on Sherlock's chest and belly.

Having already had his hands on John's thighs, Sherlock imagined it wasn't a very big deal, for him to do it again, now. In a friendly way. A way that would maybe help John, who was making some effort, sort of, to sit up. The weight on Sherlock's belly eased, as John used his hands against the floor to help himself rise. Sherlock wrapped his hands around John's thighs, then moved them down to the backs of John's knees, then up again.

 John shifted, no doubt still trying to get up, although taking his time with it. Sherlock had no interest whatsoever in rushing him. It was Christmas: everyone should take their time. He was, however, exceptionally invested in moving his hands more, in feeling the muscles of John's legs shift, and noting that John squirmed quite wonderfully, and groaned, in the back of his throat, and pronounced a string of words that, while technically relevant to the Christmas season, had nothing to do with the holiday itself, not directly.

Finally, unable to help himself, Sherlock rolled his hands up to grasp John's arse. It was at that moment that he realised John's jeans were doing nothing to disguise the firm outline of his cock, which even now seemed to throb and stir against Sherlock's chest ( _Ding Dong Merrily On High!_ ).

"Oh my God," John said, finally, his words sending a thrill up Sherlock's spine, breathed, as they were, against the front of Sherlock's pyjama pants. "Oh my God, you're so hard." Another, hot breath, followed by the sensation of John's mouth against Sherlock's cock, through his clothes.

"John." Sherlock pressed John's arse, grinding him more firmly against his chest, grinding John into him.

"Please tell me you want this," John moaned, his words sloppy, his mouth open against Sherlock. "Please, I need you in my mouth, now, please."

"I—yes." Sherlock realised his answer was a little flat, but now that John was groaning and pushing himself up on his elbows, pushing his arse back over Sherlock's face, so that he could slide Sherlock's pyjamas down over his hips, he was capable of little else. He'd begun to shake, in fact: yes, as the cool air of the sitting room hit him and his cock sprang free and he reached his hand down to palm the front of John's jeans, he was shaken, he was shaking, he was completely overcome.

This was happening. Sherlock squeezed John's cock, and John chuckled, low in his throat, and sighed. "Ah—don't worry, your turn's coming. Just—let me."

And with no further hesitation, no more waiting, John plunged down over Sherlock, taking him into his mouth, sliding and sucking along his length, as if he'd planned this his entire life.

Sherlock's eyes squeezed shut, his palm working John through his jeans, his body lifting and heaving into John's mouth. John, whose chest pinned Sherlock to the floor, holding him down, which was good, so very good, because Sherlock wanted nothing more than to thrust up into John, to finish himself in the shortest, fastest manner possible.

John seemed to know this, to sense it, and to slow in response, dragging his mouth up Sherlock's length, then pausing to suck the head, his tongue moving in such unpredictable and delightful ways, Sherlock had no choice but to feel it, to let the warm buzz of pleasure build in his belly, to allow this, allow John, everything he'd always held back.

It should have been frightening, but it wasn't. As far as he and John were concerned, he'd flown past frightening long ago. It was amazing, the culmination of everything they'd meant to each other, everything they should have always meant to each other.

The floor seemed to tilt, the sweet alcoholic haze of the stuff they'd been drinking blending with the sound of his own voice, and John's sighs, and the wet, warm, softness of John's mouth, John's tongue. Sherlock's pulse sounded loudly in his own ears as he groaned, and John took him deeper, and then it was over, Sherlock tilting suddenly into the full, real sensation of coming into John's mouth, everything emptying into that warm space, and John grinding down hard into his hand, his wrist sore from the awkward angle, his heart pounding in his ears, and everything different now, the gentle rainbow cast by the fairy lights greeting him as John released him, sticky and softening, and tucked him back into his pyjama pants.

Now it was John's turn, and Sherlock wanted to return the favour, so he reached up to undo John's zip, eager, if he were honest, to see if his deductions about John had been anything close to accurate, all these years.

"Mmm. Wait," John murmured, and, much to Sherlock's disappointment, he dismounted.

"John, I assure you that while you might consider it more or less not straight to receive fellatio from a male partner, surely you can have no objection after—"

Before he'd gotten even half of the sentence out, John had climbed back on top of him, unzipped his jeans, gotten his cock out, drawn Sherlock's hand down to it, and sighed, heavily, as Sherlock wrapped his hand around it.

"Berk." John's eyelids drifted closed and he made a throaty sound, as Sherlock began to move his hand in a sure, steady rhythm. He knew, from years' worth of research on the topic, that John preferred a more or less direct trajectory from the beginning of a wank to the happy conclusion. He was determined to give John everything he wanted, even in this, especially in this.

John lowered his head, resting his forehead on Sherlock's shoulder, his lips brushing the skin of Sherlock's neck as Sherlock stroked him, his weight pressing Sherlock down into the rug, the scent of pine needles and John mingling in a way that Sherlock was certain he would never forget. John's cock was every bit as big as Sherlock had deduced, and now, in his hand, warm and hard and sometimes twitching, it filled Sherlock with a strange, and extremely welcome, mix of contentment and anticipation.

John moaned and shifted, his hips falling into a rhythm to match the motion of Sherlock's hand. "Christ, Sherlock." He reached down between them and held Sherlock's hand, covering it with his own so he could thrust into it, finally gasping and coming hard, his forehead warm and damp against Sherlock's neck, his come soaking into the hip of Sherlock's pyjamas.

"Mmm, oh my God," John said, intensity still filling his voice. "Oh my God, come here."

There was, in fact, no space at all between them. Sherlock was going to ask John what he meant, what he could possibly mean, when John pushed himself up onto his elbows and grabbed Sherlock's face and pressed their lips together and snogged him with a fierceness that left Sherlock utterly breathless. John's mouth. John's mouth was warm and soft, the lines of his lips, that Sherlock had so covetously traced with his eyes, so many times, as familiar to him as if he'd already kissed him just as often. Sherlock opened his mouth to the kiss, tasting his own come, and the salt of John's mouth, and the slightly sweet trace of the stuff they'd both been drinking.

They kissed and kissed, and everything went fuzzy around the edges. Sherlock closed his eyes, and melted under John's weight, under the sharp dart of his elbow, digging into Sherlock's chest, and the tangle of their legs as they moved together. Slowly, the kiss grew more and more tender, and John's lips brushed the corner of Sherlock's' mouth, and then his cheek, and then he pulled away a bit, and when Sherlock opened his eyes, John was looking down at him with an expression of such open adoration that Sherlock had to look away, he had to blink a bit to clear his eyes, and the blurred rainbow fairy lights of the tree were shining over them both, and the flat was home, once again, like it hadn't been for a long while, like it had never been before.


End file.
